


crowned by an overture bold and beyond

by eg1701



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, I stand by this, Inner Dialogue, M/M, Present Tense, Self-Esteem Issues, Tom's love language is touch, but only recently, classic literature references, for literally no reason, i'm making him unpack them, mostly - Freeform, technically infidelity, there's def some major self hatred going on here, tom and his Issues, you know how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27090532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eg1701/pseuds/eg1701
Summary: The weekend away gives Tom the perfect opportunity to figure out exactly how he feels about himself, about Greg, about everything that's happened to him. He's not sure if it's a good or bad thing.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	crowned by an overture bold and beyond

**Author's Note:**

> not me once again making tom deal with his shit! I am incapable of coming up with titles, so this one comes to you from the absolute masterpiece, achilles come down by gang of youths.

Greg’s hands are smooth and soft. He supposes it’s because of their work-- no rough, calloused hands at their cushy office job, but Tom remains fascinated by them. Mostly because Greg lets him be. But he thinks about it now, eyeing Greg from his seat. Sometimes he just thinks about it all, unprompted. He supposes that’s the love thing, but he ignores that for now.

They sit in front of the fireplace, on the oversized, and beaten up chairs. Greg’s is a light blue, Tom’s much darker. He thinks maybe they were the same color at one point, but time has been unkind to his own. The fire is roaring and it’s almost too hot this close, but the snowy night outside is freezing, and everytime the door opens, it brings a gust of bone chilling wind with it. 

Tom would rather be here than out there. It’s much warmer inside.

He’s never actually seen Greg read before. 

When he first pulled out his book on the train ride up, Tom had asked him if he knew what to do with it, or if he just thought the cover was pretty, but Greg had blown through it in record fucking speed, and was well into his second read now, flipping through the pages carefully as he did so. 

“I feel like you’re staring at me,” Greg says, placing the book on the arm of the chair. It’s a worn copy-- Tom thinks about asking if Greg had read it before but he gets distracted by Greg’s hand again, that reaches out and touches his face. No one has even been so spontaneous, so _casual_ before. He feels like a horny fucking teenager, desperate for touch, for affection, for _whatever_ and it’s incredibly fucking embarassing. 

The things he would do, just to have Greg touch his face, to have Greg touch him and hold him and love him. But the thing is, Greg doesn’t ask things of him. He practically offers them up. 

(Again, it’s so fucking embarassing, he kind of wants to die.)

“That’s fucking conceited. I was just looking in that direction and your big head happened to block my view.”

Greg laughs, “Sorry.”

But he doesn’t sound sorry, and Tom doesn’t need him to be. He’s not even mad. Tom’s spent a lot of time being mad, being fucking scared out of his Goddamn mind, being defensive. It’s tiring to be on guard all the time. Anger is an easy emotion for him. Doesn’t require as much effort. 

Greg knows now is different. At least Tom is pretty sure he does.

“You know,” Greg says, but he pauses to lean over and kiss him, just once. Tom hates it when he pulls away. He kind of wants to fuck off to the middle of nowhere forever, just the two of them. They’d have no responsibilities, no nothing, “You’re like, kind of actually a human being sometimes.”

“Fuck off Greg.”

“No like, it’s nice. All romantic and shit. You I mean.”

“Literally fuck off.”

Tom doesn’t really mean that either. 

He likes when Greg says things like that, but he doesn’t want Greg to _know_ he likes it. It’s a little bit of a dilemma. 

Greg sees him a certain way. Even now, when things are different, when Tom is no longer the Tom he used to know, Greg sees him like that. He has to. Too much has happened between them for Greg to forget the Tom who pushed him around, who was willing to throw him to the fucking wolves. Even the good things Tom’s done, they have to be cancelled out by the general nastiness. 

(Tom knows this, because sometimes, when he gets angry-- because he still does, anger comes naturally to him after all-- Greg drops that he’d been worried Tom would throw something at him. It’s mostly a joke, he’s pretty sure Greg isn’t _actually_ worried about it but Tom hates himself a little bit more every time Greg says it, but Greg’s not allowed to know that.)

It’s better, Tom thinks, that there’s still a level of… something, there. He knows that Greg loves him because Greg tells him that. Frequently. Almost too frequently, even if he doesn’t explicitly say it, Tom knows what he means. 

Tom doesn’t say it back nearly as often. Sometimes he wonders if Greg doesn’t really mean it-- he knows a therapist would have a field day with all this. And Greg shows it too. 

It’s not that.

But maybe one of these days, before they’ve made things more serious, made them official, made them _whatever_ they’re finally going to be, Greg will grow tired of his treatment. 

And that’s deep down, what Tom wants. 

He wants Greg to fucking man up and tell him he’s a piece of shit, and that he deserves better treatment. Greg’s just slow on the uptake, but eventually he’ll get there. Tom wants to get all of that out in the open early, so that he doesn’t break his own heart again. 

Actually, he’s sure that a good portion of the American public would say he didn’t even have a heart. How could he, after what he did. What he allowed to happen. He got sort of sick, when he thought too hard about it, what he did to protect himself and to protect a company that didn’t give a fuck about him. Tom’s a heartless bastard, doesn’t deserve shit. That’s the view, he’s pretty sure.

“What’s up?” Greg asks, though Tom only half hears him, “Are you okay?”

Again, a hand reaches out, settles on his arm. Soft and gentle, but firm enough. Greg worries about him. Tom’s pretty sure of that. He worries when Tom pulls inward, and stops talking. He supposes _that’s_ fair, because he’d worry the same, but the idea of Greg fucking worrying about him is a bad one. He doesn’t want _Greg_ of all people worrying about him. He’s an adult, can easily take care of himself. Greg’s not his fucking mother.

“I’m okay,” Tom says. It’s true, he realizes after he says it that it is true. At least in that moment it’s the truth. Maybe it won’t be in an hour but at this second, Tom’s okay, “Are _you_ okay?”

“Uh huh,” Greg smiles, “I’m okay. Do you want to go up to the room? It’s kinda late.”

Tom glances at the big clock above the mantel place. Late enough, nearing midnight. They’ve spent several hours here, Greg and his fucking book, and Tom wallowing in his own shit. He nods, just once and Greg pushes himself up, stretching as he does.

“Your noodle legs get stiff?” he asks, and Greg laughs quietly instead of replying, and holds out his hand. After a half second, Tom accepts, lets Greg help him stand as well. He’s warm and sleepy from the fireplace, and the coffee he’d finished half an hour ago.

They make their way up to the room slowly. The building is quiet away from the lobby, from the door. Most of the people in their rooms are probably asleep. Tom thinks briefly of their room on the third floor, with the big log bed, and the ugly curtains, and the dark wood furniture. It was overly comforting. Homey. Tom likes it.

He follows Greg in silence, and lets Greg go in first, flipping on one of the lights. Just enough so they can see. It’s probably for the best, so Greg doesn’t trip over his own two feet in the dark.

“You sure you’re okay man?” Greg tosses the key onto the dresser and looks at him. 

“Yeah,” Tom pushes the door shut and leans against it for a moment. There’s several feet of space between them, and Tom resists the urge to close it, to go over and to practically jump Greg, to throw them both on the bed and fucking forget everything else. Greg won’t mind. That’s how this started anyway. Just the sex, to forget the way his life was crumbling in his hands, like a fucking sandcastle at the beach, when the tide came in. Emotions, real feelings, everything else came later. Uninvited. Snuck in without his fucking permission. And he’d never had the heart to ask it to leave.

Greg frowns at him, eyebrows furrowed. Fucking puppy dog eyes, “It’s fucking cold in here.”

“I’ll turn the heater on,” Greg says simply. Tom wishes everything were that easy. Just flip a fucking switch and ta da! Problem solved. You were cold and now you are not.

“You do that,” Tom replies offhandedly, like he doesn’t care, and slips into the bathroom when Greg’s back is turned. He stares in the mirror for a moment, half expecting someone else to be looking back. 

But it’s just him. Tom with his mother’s eyes and father’s features, but surely not his mother’s ability to speak in front of people, and surely not his father’s kind heart. Tom, the darling of his parents eyes (well, perhaps not anymore). His own tired eyes look back, the dark rings under his eyes, the perpetual frown that sets in when he doesn’t put on a happy face.

Just himself. Tom who had loved too much in a family that had not wanted it. Tom the fucking moron, if you had to ask him to describe himself. Tom, maybe one of America’s favorite punching bags-- surely a Roy favorite punching bag. The Tom who had thrown Greg under the bus, had been willing to sacrifice _anybody_ to save his own skin. That’s a lot of bad, all piled up in one person. 

But also the Tom that Greg loves-- fucking loves!, the Tom who’s mother calls him every Sunday, even if he doesn’t answer, the Tom who maybe Shiv had loved once, just not in the way he wanted. The good half of himself. Evidently there’s still enough left for people to love, if Greg was any proof.

That Tom is there too, underneath layers of bad sure, but there. Maybe he’ll let him out soon enough, let himself be fucking _something_ resmebling good for a change. Or at least try to. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. fucking Hyde. 

He supposed that people weren’t good or bad. They’re just people. He isn’t evil, isn’t a monster. But he isn’t a saint or an angel either. He’s just a person. 

He hears the heat click on, knows Greg will wonder if he stays in here for long, and leaves, sliding in as seamlessly as he slid in. Greg is sitting on the edge of the bed, typing into his phone. Tom figures it’s probably his mother. He waits patiently by the wall until Greg looks up.

“You’re not okay,” Greg frowns again, deeper this time and Tom hates that he says it, “What is it? Is- I mean, like, can I help? Cause like, just ask me and I will.”

He hates Greg for saying that a little bit. Greg should not be willing to do a damn thing for him. Not when the bad stuff in his recent life is mostly Tom’s fault. Greg’s forgiven him sure, at least he says he has, but Tom’s not sure he buys that. How do you forgive somebody so easily? Tom couldn’t do it. But maybe that’s just another strike in the bad category. 

But fucking Greg, offering it up anyway. How can I help? Fuck him honestly.

Tom shakes his head, pushes himself off the wall and crosses the room in a few steps. He places himself firmly between Greg’s knees, and wraps his arms around him. Greg’s head fits neatly against his chest, his arms wrap easily around his middle, and Tom’s chin rests nicely on Greg’s head. 

“Oh,” Greg says, a little surprised by the action, the word a little muted from where his mouth is pressed against Tom, but Tom hears him well enough now, “Okay.”

He runs a light hand through Greg’s hair, a habit of his he’d started recently. He’s pretty sure Greg likes it. At least, Greg seems to like it. He tightens his hold as well. Like he’s worried Greg can slip out of it if he doesn’t. Greg doesn’t seem to mind. 

Tom can hear his own heart beating fast, hear his pulse in his ears. Probably Greg can hear it too, but if he can, he makes no comment. Greg always wants Tom to talk about his feelings and gross shit like that. One of these days, it’s going to work too. Tom both dreads and looks forward to that day. Maybe Greg will just smile, and hold his hand, and listen to him talk, and it won’t even matter. None of it. None of the bad stuff, none of the shit he piled on Greg, none of it at all because it will just be them and they’ll be normal or happy or some bullshit like that. It’ll be nice. _If_ it happens. 

He doesn’t know, exactly, what’s going to happen. He tries not to think so much about Waystar, about the Roys, about any of it. But he’s not very good at not thinking. He wants to think the best will happen, but that’s fucking stupid.

Tom’s learned not to hope for things anymore. It is easier to focus on the real things, happening in front of him.

He has to protect whatever is left of himself. Fucking dumbass little brighteyed kid from the Midwest, out to New York to live his dreams, only to end up in the shitter. What a terrible book. Dorothy Gale has nothing on him. New York was far from being Oz, maybe just the terrible half, with the fucking witches and monkeys and evil shit.

“Yeah,” Tom says. He presses a light kiss to the top of Greg’s head, and Greg makes a small noise Tom can’t decipher-- concern perhaps. He knows this is out of character for him, knows Greg will start to press and want him to explain more, but Tom doesn’t think now is the time for it all. Not while they’ve managed a weekend away, not yet. There _will_ come a time-- Tom’s not an idiot, he can’t avoid it forever-- but not now. One of these days, he will have to tell Greg exactly how he feels. How sometimes he hates it, hates looking at himself in the mirror, hates how far he pushes Greg, hates that Greg doesn’t seem to give a shit. He will have to tell Greg that he needs to know, then and there, whether or not they want the same thing, because if they don’t, this has to end. He’s not going to go farther in this like a coward. Not this time. 

(But, even though he doesn’t want to hope anymore, he’s pretty sure this is different. That this isn’t going to explode in fucking flames, not going to burn up like the sun or a fireball or whatever. There’s no real, tangible evidence to support that. Just a feeling. God, he hopes it’s right.) 

Hell, maybe it would be alright somehow. It seems almost possible at that moment that he would be alright. That _they_ would be alright.

“This is nice,” Greg says stupidly. It means _I love you._

“You’re a dumbass,” Tom replies. It means _I love you too._

**Author's Note:**

> i was watching the finale and i got angsty about tom. but otherwise kendall really did _that!_


End file.
